The air was thick with the last of summer's strength that threatened to break into the crispness of fall at any moment. Occasionally, a breeze wafted across the pasture, carrying that promise, before the air settled into a sweet thickness once more.
They walked back towards her rooms without speaking. The fireflies that filled the field at the height of summer were gone, but the chirping of crickets still fought off the silence. The gaps in their conversation were usually comfortable, but she had seemed distracted that night. For longer than that, truth be told. They would settle into a comfortable banter only for something to happen — something outside of his perception, but clear to her —and she would fall silent with a flash of something that disappeared before he could identify it.
Several times he had been close to asking her what was going on—if something had happened, if he had done something—but each time he faltered. Things felt tenuous in a way he couldn't explain. Like something more significant than a season was ending.
They reached her room and another breeze stirred around them, lingering in the doorway as they did. It felt like an intrusion on an otherwise private moment. The thought occurred to him that he wanted to be the only thing to ever linger in her doorway and he pushed it away only to make room for the thought that he wanted to be the only one to go through it. He centered himself, with as much effort as it had taken him to turn men into trees, and just like that he was standing with his friend and the breeze was nothing but a minor relief.
She turned, leaning against the door-frame, and looked up at him. He knew her enough to know something was on her mind. He cocked his head, hands planted in his pockets. She knew him enough to know an invitation without words.
"Numair, when I first came to Tortall you promised you'd never lie to me." She said it matter-of-factly, like so many things, and he wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question. Another possibility occurred to him: an accusation.
"And I haven't." He stood straighter, brow knitted. Forgotten to tell her the occasional bit of useful information, sure, but he had always been honest with her. She studied him, letting his unease stretch out between them.
"Is that still true?" She sidestepped his response.
"Of course."
"Promise?" She held out her hand and extended her pinky to him—a practice he had taught her years earlier. A silly one and one that he enjoyed.
He looped his pinky with her own, meeting her gaze. "I promise."
She tugged at his hand, forcing him to step forward and place his free hand on the frame to maintain his balance, pulling him closer so that he leaned over her in the doorway. Her chin tilted and she looked up at him.
"Then tell me you don't want to kiss me right now."